“The rooms are more or less the way they were when William Haines decorated them [in the 1930s],” said Cukor of his house, surrounded by statuary, beautiful gardens, an Olympian pool and trickling fountains. “It all looks,” he said, “just like a Hollywood director’s house ought to look.”

The director of Holiday, The Philadelphia Story, and My Fair Lady rebuilt the house, not far from the Sunset Strip in Beverly Hills, in 1935

“The rooms are more or less the way they were when William Haines decorated them [in the 1930s],” said Cukor of his house, surrounded by statuary, beautiful gardens, an Olympian pool and trickling fountains. “It all looks,” he said, “just like a Hollywood director’s house ought to look.”

“The rooms are more or less the way they were when William Haines decorated them [in the 1930s],” said Cukor of his house, surrounded by statuary, beautiful gardens, an Olympian pool and trickling fountains. “It all looks,” he said, “just like a Hollywood director’s house ought to look.”

This article originally appeared in the January 1978 issue of Architectural Digest.

The house is in Beverly Hills on a twisting narrow little street that looks more like a setting in Europe than in southern California. In the early morning there is a feeling of languid laziness. Mockingbirds are heard in the trees, a squirrel scampers across the road and the sun shines thinly through the branches of the trees.

A wall growing thick with ivy rises directly from the shady street. It is high and long and the door in it, not instantly visible, seems dwarfed and not of the usual proportions.

Inside, the world turns brilliant, as suddenly as a scene change on the stage. Here is a garden struck with sun and a house reminiscent of a villa on the Mediterranean. It is the residence of the film director George Cukor.

"The best times of my life I remember having here—in my own house," Mr. Cukor says. "It's been an intimate part of my life, my work, my friends— a great many friends indeed.

"As a matter of fact we used to work six days a week, and usually on Sundays, I don't know how I managed it all, but we had lunch here. There were regulars like Katharine Hepburn and Irene Selznick, and Vivien Leigh, when she was in town. Through the years, particularly during the war years, everyone seemed to come here."

The director turns to look out at the garden, the flowering trees, the gentle splashing of the waterfall. "It never occurred to me that I could live in California," he says. "I was a New Yorker and came here with the talkies. Now I can't imagine living anywhere else. I'm not a sun worshiper, either. But here I live close to my work, in country surroundings.

"It bothers me when people disparage Los Angeles. They say that they miss the culture of New York and that New York is so stimulating. Well, I say if you're not dull yourself, you'll find it just as stimulating here.

"By Hollywood standards I've lived here a long time. Originally the house was a little one, but I rebuilt it in 1935. The garden was nothing, and it was redone by an extraordinary woman named Florence Yoch. The rooms are more or less the way they were when William Haines decorated them."

When William Haines designed the house, George Cukor did not impose restrictions or make demands. "Mr. Haines may have asked me some questions, and I might have asked him some questions. But he did the house," Mr. Cukor says emphatically. "That is not to take away from my personal taste and knowl­edge. The house suits me perfectly, and I know that I belong here. That's his skill and his talent."

A feeling of lively elegance is in the rooms. Everywhere there are mementos: a silver cigarette box with an endearing message, signed Marilyn; a Renoir on the table easel—a gift from Vivien Leigh; and familiar faces look from the walls—Greta Garbo, Tallulah Bankhead, Ethel Barrymore.

"Friendships are of enormous importance to me," the director says. "There is one thing about friendship, and that is, you must maintain the relative position of the first meeting. When I first met Ethel Barrymore I fell on my face. We became good friends. She was very dear to me. But when she stayed here, it was always the same. She'd contradict me; she'd say go here, go there. And then there are people I meet, and they're young and you always think of them that way—no matter how distinguished and successful they become in the future."

The house holds many pleasant memories for him. He glances at a drawing of Ethel Barrymore by John Singer Sargent. There is another of the actress Lucile Watson, given him by Charles Dana Gibson.

"I've known people for such a long time," he says. "You see how they go through life, and how they meet it all. I've had friends who've known tremendous success, dazzling success, success greater than most people have met with. These same people have also had to go through terrible tragedies and terrible despair. It's how they've managed to get through that I think is extraordinary—how they've been able to come to terms with life."

The house, like its owner, is in praise of people and offers innumerable delights: the quiet of suede walls, the gleam of a metal fireplace, the eloquence of drama softly played. Shelves reaching nearly to the ceil­ing hold books inscribed to him by their authors: Aldous Huxley, Anita Loos, Christopher Isherwood, Somer­ set Maugham and many others.

It has been written that George Cukor was so eager to read The Queen and The Hive that he skipped every one of the introductory pages, and Noel Coward had to point out that Edith Sitwell dedicated the book to him.

"Oh, I knew it," says Mr. Cukor. "That's a reference to an afternoon in London. I had bought the book and gone home to the Savoy to read it. My door was open, and I was on the telephone. Noel was in the hallway and recognized my voice. He looked in, and we had a reunion.

"He was a marvelous man, you know—very kind, very sweet. He was a good friend to everybody, and every­ body respected him. I remember when he was here in the downstairs guest room and Vivien Leigh was coming to stay with me, and I said to her, 'Someone you're very fond of is here.' We went down, and Noel was lying on the bed with a newspaper over his face. She said, 'Who's that?' He lifted the paper, and she said, 'Noel!' in delight."

A great admirer of humor, Mr. Cukor once presented a walnut to a friend, who said, "Oh, how beautiful, it's like a Faberge piece." She put it with her collection, where it still is.

"I think the element of fun," he says, "is the most wonderful element in friendships, as well as in working relationships. I don't mean the me­ chanical laugh, but a kind of humorous sense of fun—a sense of absurdity.

It's not pompous, and it makes every­ thing much more enjoyable. "People who are not humorous are often funny, too. Someone once said about such a person, 'He's heavy furniture.' I remember when Greta Garbo was doing a scene that she thought was heavy going, she'd say, 'Government business.'" He imitates her Swedish accent, and turns to look outside.

The house is and has been a place of many triumphs, serving a man who shares his perpetual pleasures: his humor, grace and sensibilities. Such is the success of George Cukor.

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